


Of crashing vases and dubious fishing rods

by Eloquy



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Complete crack, Crack, Gen, Humor, really - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-22
Updated: 2012-06-22
Packaged: 2017-11-08 08:04:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/441016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eloquy/pseuds/Eloquy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mrs Hudson views something unexpected. Lestrade tries to keep his sanity. John should stop betting altogether.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of crashing vases and dubious fishing rods

**Author's Note:**

> Be aware, reader, this is crack. And by crack, I mean it sets up new level of crackiness on the very respected Crack Scale.  
> I thought about apologizing, but really, I'm not sorry at all. Because it was just far too much fun to write.
> 
> I don't own anything, I'm just using those characters as a creative punching-ball.

When Mrs Hudson woke up that morning, she wasn't expecting much of her day. Really not. She had planned a spot of cleaning, maybe cooking a few cakes and some ironing in front of the telly.  
What she hadn't planned, however, was to find herself nose to nose with a respectable Inspector from Scotland Yard, stark naked apart from a pair of black pants and some bright yellow swim fins at his feet, as he was awkwardly trying to paddle down the stairs.

(Here, Mrs Hudson would like to point out that, albeit very strange, that meeting was not completely unwelcome. When one has gone through life like she did and one has learned to appreciate pieces of art, one does not turn a blind eye on handsome naked men going down staircases. Especially when that particular activity clearly expands one's knowledge about the muscles involved in that type of movement.)

At that given point, her whole body decided to declare its independence to her brain and react as it wished to, which is, if we are blunt, in a completely stupid way. Her eyebrows shot up, her eyes widened exponentially, her mouth emitted a very embarrassing squeak, and, as her hand shot up to try to contain said squeak, she dropped the vase full of flowers she had been holding.

The resulting crash, accompanied by a few choice words, made the Inspector suddenly aware that he was no longer alone. A bit too suddenly, even, and as swim fins are not the most stable shoes in the world (and the term “shoes” might be seriously debatable here), he spent the next few seconds thanking God, his mother and his extensive guitar practice for the strong grip he had on the bannister.

After balancing himself expertly on the edge of the step, he became acutely aware that such a situation would usually require a strong explanation. Very strong, and possibly involving a reference to the greater good and how his selflessness and abnegation concerning his attire had saved, at least, a dozen people. What was not considered as a strong explanation, however, was the few words he managed to utter after a too long minute of silence. It went along the lines of:

"This is not what it looks like."

To which, of course, Mrs Hudson could only answer:

"I don't know what it looks like, dear, but it certainly does look interesting."

The embarrassment of any further explanation was cut by a regal Sherlock, stepping on the landing, left hand tightly wrapped around what seemed to be a fishing rod. Well, if fishing rods usually came with a harpoon embedded at the top. Here, Mrs Hudson’s brain noticed that even if the day had started with no real expectations, it was clearly upping its game by providing her with another fine specimen of a man. A man who was definitely trying to set up new standards for the term “loosely tying up one’s dressing gown belt”.

She was already preparing herself to demonstrate to Sherlock that tying actually implied doing a knot with two loose ends of a piece of fabric (and not just merely twisting them and hoping a divine force would keep them that way), when the man himself hit the floor with the fishing rod and commanded:

“Lestrade, duck!”

Lestrade ducked. Lestrade would like to point out, at this particular moment of the story, that he usually doesn’t obey Sherlock’s every order. However, in his defense, Lestrade would also like to make the audience understand that he was in his pants, in swim fins, in the stairs, in front of an elderly lady who was shamelessly undressing him with her eyes and that he would rather not add “impaled by a fishing rod” to the whole picture. So he ducked and hoped this would be a proof to the world that he was a sensible man.

But Sherlock was not the world, as much as he liked to believe so, and was clearly not impressed by the sensibleness of Lestrade. He tapped the rod impatiently, huffed a few times through his nose and made grand gestures with his free hand.

“No, Lestrade! Duck!”

The Inspector, understanding that Sherlock could very much mean the word and not the verb, looked left and right, down and up, to see if, by any chance, a duck had materialized in the middle of the entrance hall of 221B. Seeing nothing, and deciding that Mrs Hudson looked very un-duck-like, he did what most people do when they don’t know something, and shrugged.

He did this two seconds before remembering that Sherlock didn’t like shrugging people. And by that, he meant, even less than the rest of the common people. When it came to it, “don’t like” was maybe a bit soft. “Loathe”, “hate” and “would like to skin them with a plastic spoon” was probably nearer to the point. So he was not really surprised when two hands grabbed him by the shoulders and a mop of black hair was shoved in his face.

“Duck, Lestrade. A duck.”

Lestrade realized then that Sherlock had very strange eyes. He had known for a bit, but it was the first time he was seeing them that close. It looked like they couldn’t decide on which color to be, and changed constantly, probably according to some very ingenious pattern. Maybe they were in sync with Sherlock’s brain cells. It would make sense. And to be honest, it was a bit unsettling. Fascinating. Very very distracting. So when the man in question roughly shook him by the shoulder, it took the inspector a couple of seconds to remember what everything was about.

“Ah. Duck?”

“Yes, Lestrade, duck!”

He stared helplessly into space for a few moments, at a loss of what to do, then, deciding that he really hadn’t any shreds of dignity to lose, he uttered in a small voice:

“Qu….ack?”

“YES! Brilliant!”

Lestrade wasn’t really sure how he had gotten that right. He was exactly quite sure what “that” was, either. However, he pondered a moment on the fact that if it was so easy to make Sherlock happy, he should really start speaking with animal sounds at crime scenes. It would certainly make communication less easier (although one could certainly imagine a system where “Woof” would mean “Yes” and “Moo”, “No”, and “suicide” could be “Meow”, and “murder”, “Honk”, but it seemed quite tedious), but if it avoided insults and general tension, really, who was he to complain?

In the meantime, Sherlock had sauntered back up the stairs, swinging the fishing rod gleefully, while calling out in a very smug voice:

“You owe me ten quid, John. I was right. As ever.”

To which John, sounding very annoyed, answered:

“Tell Lestrade to pay you. It’s his fault.”

Lestrade let out a long-suffering sigh, his brain giving small signs of distress. He hoped, not for the first time, that someone would come down from the sky, and explain, with some diagrams and descriptive notes, what the bloody hell was happening right now. So he could try to react accordingly. And not stand like an idiot in the stairs with only his pants on. And swim fins. And no idea where his clothes where. And then, maybe his brain would feel better. Less exposed. Safe. A tiny cough interrupted the slow unravelling of his thoughts.

“Tea, dear?”

Mrs Hudson. Right. It was probably the safest bet for now. His brain rejoiced at the prospect of such a pedestrian activity.

“That’d be lovely, thanks.”

He awkwardly went down the last few steps, following her into the living-room. He paused, scratching his head.

“You don’t happen to have any clothes, Mrs Hudson, do you? I appear to have…. misplaced mine.”

She turned on the spot, with what could only be described as a devious smile on her face. Except little old ladies didn’t smiled deviously. It was not right. Right?

“I’m afraid not, Inspector. Such a shame. But please, do sit down. We wouldn’t want you to be uncomfortable.”

At which point, Lestrade’s brain decided he was fed up with all of this, handed in his resignation, packed his suitcases and left for a very long vacation, very far away, where everything was normal and little old ladies didn’t smile deviously.

What happened to Lestrade, however, the narrator does not know.


End file.
